A ripple of disbelief coursed through the room, morphing into skepticism as eyes turned to Mr. Connor. He took the flash drive with a nod, moving to the laptop set up at the end of the table. A few clicks later, the video sprang to life on the screen.

The room seemed to hold its breath as my father’s face appeared, older and gaunter than I remembered, but unmistakably him. His eyes sparkled with a warmth that had been absent in life’s final years. Everyone shifted in their seats, drawn to the screen as if pulled by an invisible thread.

“Hello, my dear family,” my father began, his voice rich with the Southern drawl of his youth that he’d never quite lost. “If you’re watching this, I suppose I’ve moved on to whatever’s next. I wanted to leave you with more than just words on paper.”

Karen’s posture stiffened, her mask of confidence slipping. Uncle Rick fidgeted, his earlier arrogance now absent. My father continued, his gaze seeming to meet mine through the screen.

“I regret the years I lost, the mistakes I made. And to you, my child”—he paused, eyes softening—“I’m sorry. I was cruel when I should have been kind. You are, and always were, worthy. I failed to show you that, and it haunts me.”